


Thursday at the A.B.C. Press

by astrid_fischer



Series: 'le révolutionnaire', an a.b.c. press publication [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Modern Era, Multi, enjolras runs a newspaper because of reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 09:26:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrid_fischer/pseuds/astrid_fischer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras locks Jehan and Bossuet out on the fire escape, most everyone is unhelpful, there is an issue to put out, for god’s sake, and Courfeyrac has to be a (sort-of) hero in an ironic Christmas sweater.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thursday at the A.B.C. Press

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry about the gold shorts (but i'm not that sorry)

Courfeyrac gets the frantic text (atrociously misspelled, of course, because Jehan never bothers to fix his AutoCorrect) on the cobblestoned street just around the corner from the press office.

He grins slowly as he reads it, but doesn’t have time to key a reply before he hears his name called desperately from up high.

He shades his eyes to look up at the fire escape some twenty feet above him, upon which are perched two figures: one of them leaning against the rail as if he can’t be bothered (or at least wants everyone to think so) and the other sitting with his legs dangling over the edge, waving at him emphatically.

It’s the latter who calls again, in a tone which suggests Courfeyrac might actually be wearing armor over his cuffed jeans and carefully ironic reindeer Christmas sweater, “Courfeyrac! At last!”

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac asks jovially, making a valiant attempt not to laugh, “Why are you and Bossuet on the fire escape?”

The response is so agitated and flustered that the words trip over each other and jumble up confusingly, and at last Courfeyrac holds up a hand. He’s managed to discern two key bits, “Enjolras,” and “locked out,” and that’s plenty to go on for now.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he calls with a wink, and can’t suppress a chuckle as he rounds the corner.

The ABC Press office is busy—Eponine is sitting at her desk vindictively marking up proofs with red pen while Feuilly fetches the corrected sheets as soon as she’s done with them and deposits them on the corner of the layout desk, where Enjolras and Combeferre are deep in discussion.

Grantaire is sitting with his feet up on one of the unused desks and his knit hat pulled low over his eyes, dictating something to Joly, who has perched himself on a stool next to him typing furiously on his battered laptop.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac greets the editor cheerfully as he enters, and Enjolras glances up at him. “Why are Bossuet and Jehan out on the fire escape?”

Enjolras makes a _hmm_ -ing sound, as if this is news to him, and looks over one shoulder out the window to see that the two men are, in fact, right where Courfeyrac has said they are.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, eyebrows knitting together. His tie is unknotted and his blonde hair is stuck up in absurd directions, as though he’s already run his hands through it a dozen times this morning. Enjolras is always extra on-edge on Thursdays because the final copy needs to be in by five o’clock.

“Jehan is out there because we had discussed previously my wishes as to his writing on things that are _not_ his,” Enjolras answers crisply, and then narrows his eyes at the dark-haired girl at the copy desk. “Eponine, no matter _how_ many times you cross out ‘color’ I am not going to change it to ‘colour’ and that is final.”

Eponine sticks her tongue out at him.

“Did he write sonnets on the tax forms again?” Courfeyrac asks Enjolras to recall his attention, and leans against the desk by Eponine, who taps him on the knee in greeting.

“Villanelles on the stock orders,” Enjolras replies distractedly, and points to something among the mess of proofs for Combeferre to mark out. “I told him I’d lock him outside next time. Besides, I gave him plenty of paper to take with him so he can write whatever his heart desires on things which are not my order forms.”

“He did do that,” Jehan pipes up helpfully, holding up the packet of paper to show Courfeyrac through the glass. Courfeyrac rolls his eyes at his friend, but the effort not to grin is costing him.

“Yes, well, why Bossuet?” he presses. “I know he’s not guilty of poetry misdemeanors, he can’t write to save his life.”

“Rude,” Bossuet calls through the glass of the window, crossing his arms over his glittery t-shirted chest and assuming his most offended pout.

But Enjolras doesn’t answer, doesn’t even give a sign that he’s heard the question except for the muscle which works in his jaw as he focuses even more deliberately on fixing the layout.

It only takes a second before Courfeyrac’s iPhone vibrates in his back pocket and he digs it out to see a text from Combeferre.

_e & r came in together & bossuet started singing the kissing song_

It takes a concentrated effort to turn Courfeyrac’s snort of laughter into a cough. The news about Enjolras and Grantaire is not all that surprising—that one’s been coming for months. The news about Bossuet’s lack of tact—no, that’s not particularly surprising either.

“Yes, well, whyever they’re out there, shouldn’t you let them in soon?” he asks lightly. “It’s January. They’ll freeze to death. Especially Bossuet.”

“Might teach him not to wear gold lamé shorts to work,” is Enjolras’ not-terribly-concerned response.

“ _I will not be repressed_ ,” Bossuet yells from outside.

Joly gives Bossuet a longing look, but from the way his eyes flick to Enjolras’ imposing figure it’s clear he’s not going to risk the wrath of the editor by freeing his boyfriend without permission. Grantaire giggles and tips something into his mug of coffee that is most definitely alcoholic.

“Really, Grantaire?” Enjolras sighs and pushes a stray curl out of his blue eyes, fixing the other man with a cross look that is maybe not as sharp as it normally would have been. “It’s not even noon.”

“Never stopped me before,” is Grantaire’s blithe response. Enjolras sighs again and strikes through one of Joly’s too-wordy headlines with a highlighter, but he colors slightly as Grantaire blows him a kiss, and yes, that’s a smile pressing at the corners of his mouth.

“You are fooling no one,” Bossuet interjects loudly from the fire escape.

Enjolras moves with his customary grace to yank down the blinds so that Jehan and Bossuet are obscured from view, though the latter’s loudly shrieked protest is still very audible.

“Enjolras, it’s going to snow,” Courfeyrac wheedles, and the editor glares at him. It’s rather like being glared at by a very miffed angel. “It’s going to snow and they’re going to freeze like two little matchstick girls out there, and I know you don’t want that on your conscience.”

There’s a pause, wherein Enjolras seems to be deliberating very seriously the cost versus gain of letting two of his closest friends freeze to death, and then he gestures impatiently to the window. “As long as they keep quiet, they can come back in,” he allows magnanimously, and accepts the newest marked-up page from Feuilly.

“Eponine, will you _answer your phone_ ,” he adds sharply, as the Star Wars theme begins to play for the fourth time from the scratched red cell phone by her elbow.

“It’s Marius,” she answers in a put-upon way, twisting her red-lipsticked lips in a grimace. “He’s met a girl.”

“Don’t answer it,” Joly and Combeferre say at the same time, with matching looks of horror, and Enjolras can’t hide the quirk of his lips, harassed though he is. “Fine, but turn it off or something, will you?”

Courfeyrac unlocks the window and Bossuet scrambles past him to leap into Joly’s arms, bemoaning the cruelty of people who can’t take a joke while Joly pets his head and offers soothingly to check his tongue for swollen nodes.

Jehan allows Courfeyrac to take his hand and pull him back into the warmth of the office. He’s shivering, and Courfeyrac sighs (not without fondness) and pulls his sweater over his head to offer to the other man. Jehan tugs the green-and-red monstrosity over his head while Courfeyrac shuts the window.

The poet squeezes the taller man’s hand gratefully, cheeks still red from the cold and brown hair rather adorably tousled.

“Now, if everyone has stopped whining about being _cold_ ,” Enjolras says in a way which suggests that it isn’t January in Paris and they’re all being entirely unreasonable just to annoy him, “We have to finalize the Calendar and the Op Ed columns before we go to press.”

“I’ve written a new poem,” Jehan whispers in Courfeyrac’s ear as they walk back over to the cluster of desks. He hasn’t yet let go of the other man’s hand. “Would you like to read it?”

And Courfeyrac grins broadly and assures him that yes, he very much would.


End file.
